till the cats come home
by microfiber shoelaces
Summary: Spike is familiar with the angel of Death. mentions drug use...and some other stuff.


**till the cats come home**

by microfiber shoelaces  
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It feels very good to be alive.

…

So in keeping with his mood he decided that maybe now would be a good time to think. To think about things. Things that had happened. Now was the only time possible. Possibly.

He couldn't decide, but that was to be expected. I mean, given his current state. And the thought makes him giggle.

He thinks he feels her lying next to him. Not her, but _her_. And he finds it strange because it's only been a short while since the last time he saw her, and he seems to have remembered that she said it would be a while before the next time. But he does some more of that thinking and remembers some more, remembers that in fact it had been years since he last saw her. Maybe more than that. Who knows?

"The least you could do is say hello," he thinks he says.

She replies that she isn't happy. But she doesn't actually say it. He can't see her mouth; it's covered by a veil. And tonight her hair seems silver instead of black like usual, but he squints his unusually blurry eyes and sees that that too is a veil. Playing tricks on him. He asks her why she isn't speaking.

"I am speaking."

"Oh."

He's very hot even though it's December and the radiator is broken again. He's hot even though he's only wearing his boxers. He figures he should feel vaguely embarrassed about being so indecent in front of her, but he doesn't care right now. She isn't really real, so she can't care either. Right?

He screws up his face in thought. Why was she here tonight?

"You know why I'm here tonight."

"Are you finally going to take me this time?"

"No."

"Then I don't know."

Actually, he does know. It's the drugs. It's always the drugs. Well, not always. Actually, this is the first time. And all of the sudden he feels terrible. A sick wrenching feeling in his stomach. And oh god, it's awful. So bad. Shit.

She looks at him pityingly, and cups his face in a slender white hand. Her breath is cold and smells like flowers. The kind you'd leave at a grave. Lilies. Do lilies even have a smell?

And then the water hits him, cold, wet, and all the things that water usually is. And he comes to his senses a little. The hand upon his face is masculine. The white veil of the angel, Vicious' pale locks swinging about his face. The low rumbling voice calling his name over and over.

He sits up and looks around. Past Vicious' worried grey eyes, past the syringes and prescription bottles, past the fraying edge of the mattress. She's gone though. He doesn't know when he'll see her again, but he figures it will be soon.

…

Julia leans closer, her face still clear, but her lips flushed red. Those deep blue eyes at half-mast. They kiss, and as they fall back against the uncovered pink mattress, he glimpses a figure in white. Lips still locked, he flips both of them over so he can look past her shoulder, but the figure is gone. Like she was never there at all. Maybe it's a sign.

…

He never liked the handle. He felt bad when Mao gave it to him, like an ungrateful child refusing a birthday gift. So he kept the small knife on him at all times even though he hated the gaudy green marble. He twirls it between his fingers, blade extended, and thinks. He thinks a lot. People don't realize it, but he really does.

He takes off his leather jacket and lays it on the ground beside him. He rolls up his shirtsleeves. Then he twirls the blade some more.

"Are you encouragement or determent?" he asks her.

"I didn't even know you knew the word determent."

He snorts. She says nothing.

"If you're going to do it, you might as well get it over with."

He sighs, and tosses the knife into the middle of the alley. "I'm not going to. It's not worth it."

"No?"

"'Cause then I _really_ won't be able to be with her. At least this way I have a chance."

"Don't you believe in heaven?"

"I don't know."

"Even with me?"

"I don't think you're real."

"Ah."

They are silent for a little while.

"Are you?" he asks.

"That depends on what you think."

"Why? You said you were an angel, not a fairy."

"Yes, but if you don't believe I'm real then it doesn't really matter to you what I am."

"I don't think you answered my question."

"Shame, that."

She takes off her veiled hat and holds in it her hands in front of her. He asks her why she is here.

"Because you were making the choice."

…

"Tell me, lady love, do you know everything?"

"No. Not everything."

He smiles lazily and slumps against the counter. "No? Why not? I thought you were an angel. Angels know everything."

"If I knew everything then I wouldn't need to be here every time you have to choose."

"So, you come…just in case?"

"Yes," she says languidly. She places her ridiculous hat on the counter and extends a gloved hand. "Excuse me? A gin and tonic, please."

He watches as the bartender fixes her the drink and slides it down the worn surface of the counter. "How come he can see you?"

"Well, I figured you wouldn't want to be considered crazy, talking to yourself and all."

"I'm drunk. It'd be considered acceptable behaviour."

She 'hmph's and takes a small sip of her drink. He finishes off the dregs of his bottle and signals for another.

"So…why're you here? I don't have a gun pointing at my head. No knife in my arm. And no drugs this time, either."

"How many of those bottles have you had?"

He looks at the sparkling amber sculpture collecting on the counter next to him. "Ah."

The bartender brings him the beer, but he leaves it unopened.

"So, not quite ready yet?"

He fingers the bandage over his eye. "No, I guess not."

She polishes off the drink and stands up. She picks up her hat, smoothes the wrinkles from her dress, and puts a few bills on the counter. He stares at her for a few moments, and she stares back.

"Where were you in the warehouse? At the flower stand, or when they took my eye, or at the hospital even? Where were you? Where were you when I almost died, then?"

"You told her yourself, your death would be a fake."

"This life will be a fake."

"But it is still a life."

He stares dejectedly at the unopened bottle in his hand. She places the hat upon her head and arranges the white lace so that it partially covers her face.

"Don't worry."

She moves behind him and puts her hands on his shoulders.

Close to his ear, she whispers, "You'll see her again, someday."

…

"Tsk, tsk."

He doesn't acknowledge her admonishment. He doesn't acknowledge her presence at all. His eyes are closed and his breathing is quick.

"God damnit Spike."

He opens his eyes and sees the burly face of his comrade. His friend. Jet looks worried, and he figures that means he screwed up somehow. Something bad. Behind Jet, framed against the ceiling fan light, she stands. Still wearing her ridiculous veiled hat. Her ridiculous white dress.

"Hey," he breathes softly.

"Don't talk, you idiot. You'll only make it worse," says Jet. The angel nods her head in agreement.

Spike looks into her face. Her sad face. He cannot imagine her looking another way, but cannot remember many times when he has actively paid it much attention. She's always veiled, looking the other way, standing to one side. Now she hovers above him and he finds it hard to look at anything else.

"So, this is it then?"

"Spike, shut up."

"Like I said, I don't know everything," says the face, regrettably. Her pretty red lips form the syllables with painstaking precision.

"But you know something."

"God damned stubborn asshole. Just stop talking!" yells Jet.

"I suggest you listen to him."

Spike closes his eyes and sighs. He can feel her eyes on him. Her cold hand removing a piece of purple glass above his eye. Her cold hand cupping his cheek.

"Not yet, I think."

…

He sees her from time to time, from the corner of his eye. Standing on a snowy rooftop in Callisto, leaning over a jumpsuit-clad Faye in an abandoned research facility, by the corpse of a Titan war veteran as he lay dying in the golden rain. Running through the amusement park he sees a flash of white lace, but it is only the curtain from a puppet show, so he is not afraid. She stands with them while they talk to Annie. She promises him she'll protect Julia until he joins her soon. She watches his battle with Vicious underneath the moonlight. As he staggers down the steps in the morning sun, she smiles and catches him as he falls.

"Welcome," she says. "We've been waiting a long time."

He tells her it feels very good to be alive..  
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_Fin._


End file.
